Through Weary Eyes
by Niharumari
Summary: A series of short stories/drabbles based off some random writing prompts. Told from the perspectives of Matsuda, Ide, Aizawa, and Mogi, and set after the conclusion of the Kira case.
1. Cocktail

Through Weary Eyes

_1. Cocktail_

By the time Matsuda realized he was all-out drunk, it was already too late. Lazily, he sprawled half-upside-down across Misa's couch – the same one he knew she and Light used to cuddle on, and probably where they used to discuss the plans for their next criminal's death – and tipped his wine glass to the ceiling fan, like he was saluting it.

He swigged down the last sip of the heavy red wine, only he ended up with most of it rolling down his chin and cheeks, and he knew he probably looked like some kind of grotesque blood-drinking vampire.

"Oops," he said with a grin. "Par'renly drinkin' upsi'down 'sin too smart, huh, Misa-Misa?"

Matsuda turned his head enough to grin at the tiny blonde woman sitting on the love seat to his left, swinging her legs contentedly.

"Nah, 's not that hard," she replied cheerfully. "I do it a lot. N' sometimes, when I'm really ti'sy, I pr'tend Ligh's standin' up there, holdin' the glass for me…" Even drunk, her voice sounded suddenly sad. "Matsu-chan?"

"Yeah?" He was lying on his back in a daze, watching the fascinating rotation of the ceiling fan's blades.

"I miss Ligh'…when's he comin' home t' see me?"

"Soon, proba'ly."

Matsuda heard the cushions and springs in the love seat groan and knew Misa had rolled over and was looking at him.

"Tha's what e'ryone…keeps tellin' me. But it's been over two whole weeks wif' no word a'tall from him…" She trailed off, and then he heard her stand up. "Do ya' wanna' cocktail, Ma'su-chan?"

He nodded and shut his eyes. "Sure. Juss' don' fall n' hurt yourself."

Only half-aware of Misa slowly walking away, he knew he was going to pay for this big time in the morning. Regardless, even a few hours of drunken reprieve from the nightmares, Light's accusing stare, and the blood and the gunshots made it all worth it.

"Mas'u-chan?"

He lifted his head with effort to peer over the couch. Misa was leaning against the kitchen counter, her eyes huge, glassy, and red.

"You're a de'tetive. A cop. Ligh' worked wif' you cops of'in…I know all of you thin' I'm made of glass o' somethin…so are ya' lyin' to me?" Her lip started quivering. "Is Ligh' ever comin' home, Ma'su-chan?"

Matsuda flinched, blinked hard, and told himself to get a grip.

"Can'…can' tell you that, Misa-Misa. Ai…would kill me…"

He heard her sigh, glasses and bottles clinking as liquids flowed. Why was he supposed to keep Light's death a secret anyway? Why from his girlfriend of all people, this woman who cared for him more than anything else in the world?

A dainty glass appeared in his eyesight.

"Thanks." He groped for the tiny stem and stared at the drink. It was a light pink, a plump red cherry sitting at the bottom of the glass. Matsuda glanced over at Misa, precariously trying to seat herself without spilling her drink. There was no fruit or cherry or decoration of any kind in her glass. His throat swelled, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut again. Even totally drunk, the girl still remembered his fondness for fruit.

_What am I doing? I can't keep this from her!_

Without thinking, he said, "Misa?"

"Hnn?"

"You're righ'…abou' Ligh'…somethin' did happen…"

"Tell me." He heard the tremors in her voice.

"One day, we all wen' down to this warehouse on a mission from L. But Ligh'…Ligh' got shot. Shot full of holes. He's dead now…s' my fault…"

It was quiet for a long time.

"Ligh'…Ligh' is dead?"

Matsuda looked over to see the tears starting to come, her little cocktail glass shattering against the floor. The drink had been a dark red, like her wine – maybe she hadn't bothered to make herself an actual cocktail – and when it spread on the floor and spattered onto her legs, it looked just like the bloodstains he was trying so hard to run from.

_**A/N: Hi all! I was tired of feeling like a loser for having only one story to my puny little name. So I'm writing another. Well, clearly, it's not a story with a plot and all that, just a bunch of scenes based around some one-word writing prompts I found.**_

_**Sorry for starting off with this one, what with Matsu and Misa slur-talking the whole time because they're...well..drunk. I **__**promise, they're not all like that... I did this on purpose, however, to kind of indicate that it's mostly Matsu-centric. I'm going to try to keep the other Task Force members in here because that's the whole point of this story, but sorry if it's too much Matsuda; I just love that dork so much!**_

_**Random note: This story collection whatever-you-wanna-call-it actually came about because I was reading Volume 13 of DN and saw the part about "Not being allowed to tell Misa of Light's death, but someone like Matsuda probably let it slip." And then I realized that in my last J.A.M chapter, Ide asked Matsuda about Misa as though it was common knowledge that she knew already. Which she didn't. Oops. So I need to go fix that.  
But then I decided to write out just how Matsu "let it slip." And then I figured I should do a series on something like this. So yeah..overly-drawn out explanation done now.**_


	2. Sunset

_2. Sunset_

There was no satisfaction in knowing the six-year-long case was finally over. None at all. Not for any of them, but least of all for Mogi.

He stood outside of the hated Yellowbox, hands in his pockets, watching the sun go down over Tokyo. Unlike everyone else, who'd played a part in what had just happened, he'd been practically held as a hostage by Near in a hotel room. It was sad, beyond sad, actually. It was pathetic that after everything that happened, he'd been removed at the very end, reduced to nothing but a mere observer.

Someone touched his shoulder, and he stiffened, turned around. Aizawa stood there, looking exhausted and haggard.

"You and Ide stay here with Near and the others, okay? Matsuda and I are going after Light."

"By yourself?"

"Yeah. We'll be fine. There's no way he could do anything to us in his condition. We'll just follow the trail of his blood…"

Aizawa's voice faltered, despite the rock-hard exterior he was trying to show for everyone else's sake. Mogi could certainly understand; following the blood trail of a man you once thought you could trust with your life, only to learn he was a killer bent on fighting until the very end was not a very happy concept.

"Just watch yourself," Mogi warned the other man. He caught sight of Matsuda walking up behind Aizawa, and almost had to do a double-take. Never mind that he was the reason Light was bleeding and full of holes, he could hardly comprehend what he'd seen him do, the sheer force of his enraged betrayal. Matsuda's face was set in a hard, cold expression.

"Come on, Aizawa." He didn't wait for him, breaking into a brisk run.

Aizawa shot Mogi a look filled with… despair? Exasperation? Maybe, he decided, it was both.

He watched them both run until they were nothing more than specks along the fence line, casting long shadows behind them. Turning back to the sun, he shut his eyes and let himself be immersed in its warmth. Here at least, he could pretend none of this had ever happened.


	3. Kingdom

_3. Kingdom_

Ide sat alone in his empty apartment, eating a cheese sandwich without tasting it. He was too busy wrestling with his desire to strangle the latest news anchor on Sakura TV. Yet another zany man in pure white clothes, crying out to "Lord Kira" to please return and finish his kingdom.

Ever since the showdown in the warehouse which ended Kira's reign, all the TV stations had kicked up their Kira productions up a notch, begging for the return of the world's god, and usually following it up with promises related to humble servants, vast castles, and the like.

Disgusted, Ide shut off the TV and threw his sandwich in the trash. Watching all that crap had completely turned his stomach anyway. He stood up and walked over to the window, arms folded as he stared out it. The lights were all out, so he could see the lights sparkling in the night. Suddenly feeling the need for air, he pushed open the window even though it was still January and damn cold out. A rush of icy air pushed its way into his apartment, but he didn't care. He stuck his head out the window and listened to the bustle of hundreds of thousands of people below him, the hum of the city.

_This is my home,_ he thought protectively, fiercely. _And there's no way Kira will ever turn it into his little kingdom. There's no way, because he's dead, and I'm still alive, and it's all finally over._

**_A/N: *flinch* Sorry for spamming everyone's inboxes... And I also apologize for the length of the chapters growing shorter and shorter; I'm working on that. D:_**


	4. Bravado

_Bravado_

They both stood outside of the abandoned building, waiting for Ide, Mogi, and the SPK to arrive. Aizawa glanced at Matsuda, leaning against the cold metal wall, arms crossed protectively over his chest. He looked so different from the man he was used to seeing; this subdued, angry side of Matsuda was one he guessed he'd have to get used to seeing for a while.

"He looked peaceful," Matsuda said quietly. "The way Light looked…stretched out there on the stairs…"

"Stop it," Aizawa broke in roughly.

Matsuda turned and looked at him for the first time. His face was hard, but his eyes were anguished. "But…I killed him. Aizawa…_I killed him_." His voice sounded raw, like he was hoarse from screaming as he was shooting the man he refused to believe was Kira.

Aizawa's stomach jerked, and he balled his fists, suddenly afraid he'd throw up all over the sidewalk. That wouldn't really do anything for his show of bravado. He couldn't let himself be sick. He had to be hard and strong, if only for Matsuda.

"No." He walked in front of the younger man and grabbed his shoulders. He was taller than Matsuda by a few inches, but he was still able to look him squarely in the eyes. "What you killed…it wasn't a person. It sure as hell wasn't Light Yagami. It was Kira, the mass murder, the crazy whatever-it-was who thought he'd be a god." Matsuda stared at him, and Aizawa got the distinct impression that he was clinging to every word like they were all that would save him. "Light was dead long before now. He died when he picked up that notebook, no, when he killed the first criminal and thought it was okay." Matsuda looked away then, and he tightened his grip on the man's shoulders. He was a little surprised Matsuda wasn't complaining about it.

"You saved everyone's life, you hear? At the very least, you saved Near, the true L."

"But I couldn't save him," he mumbled. "Not _the_ L. Ryuzaki. He died anyway. Maybe if I wasn't so stupid…"

Aizawa just sighed. What else could he say? Everything had already been said.

A dark car pulled up in front of them, followed closely by a second car. Everyone got out of the car. While the SPK headed only for the closed door where Light's body lay, Ide and Mogi walked over to Matsuda and Aizawa.

"So he's here then?" Ide asked quietly, nodding towards the SPK.

Before Aizawa could reply, Matsuda jerked his head up and said, "Yeah. He's here. He's dead."

He'd seen that desperate, haunted look in Matsuda's eyes, and he knew the hardness in his face now was only a cover-up for what he could only imagine he was feeling.

Aizawa sighed and could only hope that the fake show of bravado and anger was temporary. He couldn't stand to lose another person, couldn't stand to watch anyone else fall from the light.

_**A/N: Used the anime ending for this one, including that scene of Matsu and Aizawa finding Light's body exclus**__**ive to one of those "Director Rewrite/2-hour-long" things. Really, think about it: they probably DID think Light was dead because of Matsuda; they didn't know Ryuk had killed him yet.**_


	5. Mistletoe

_Mistletoe_

The lights decorating the Christmas tree twinkled and sparkled off the cool black pane of Ide's window. Matsuda was leaning against it, trying in vain to see the city lights past the reflections of the tree decorations.

Three years had passed since the closing of the Kira case, and slowly, slowly, they'd gotten their lives back together. Somehow, when they weren't looking, they had begun healing.

And now it was Christmas Eve, and Ide and Matsuda were still bachelors with nothing to do on a holiday night, so he'd jumped at the chance to crash at Ide's to decorate a tree, bake, and then sit in front of the TV and eat all the cookies they'd made.

"Aren't you supposed to be helping me over here?" Ide called from the kitchen where he was mixing a bowl of green icing.

Matsuda looked away from the window and only then did he realize something was burning.

"Ide, the cookies!" he yelped, almost knocking a lamp off an end table as he leaped for the kitchen.

Ide cursed and snapped open the oven which emitted curls of black smoke. He grabbed the tray and cursed louder when he burned his hand. Wrapping a towel around his good hand, he yanked the tray free and dumped the whole thing into the sink, where it started hissing.

"Now if you'd been getting this dumb frosting ready, I could have been watching the oven!" he snapped. His face was bright red, as was the burn on his hand. Steam rose from the sink and smoke still came from the oven, which Ide had neglected to close. Green dye from the icing dotted his otherwise-spotless blue polo shirt, and Matsuda noticed specks of icing along his arm. The whole scene was so ridiculously hilarious, he just started laughing, regardless of the death glare Ide was giving him.

The other man eventually grinned and laughed right along with him even as he picked up the bowl of icing and scraped it into the garbage because with the cookies a charred mess, there was no longer any need for it.

So instead, they got in the car and drove down the brightly-lit streets of Tokyo and walked into the first grocery store they saw, picking up three packages of Christmas cookies and cupcakes from the store's bakery. Then they went home and watched game show reruns until sometime past midnight, finished all three trays of cookies along with several glasses of wine and sake, and couldn't go to bed afterwards because they got pretty sick on all the food.

But it was still the best Christmas either of them remembered having in a long time.

_**A/N: Yeah, okay, no mention of mistletoe. The prompt should have been called "cookie" or "baking" or something..**_


	6. Ritual

_Ritual_

Matsuda knew without a doubt that Sachiko Yagami hated him.

Of course, she was a proper Japanese woman, too polite to ever make her feelings obvious. But he knew better. He'd seen how she looked at him whenever he showed up at her doorstep for the visits he almost felt he owed them, like every time he came, he was just the bringer of bad news, bringer of death.

Granted, when the Chief had died, Aizawa and Light had been the one to tell Sachiko and Sayu, but when Light died, they'd sent him with Ide. He couldn't imagine why, either. Aizawa had made some excuse about papers that needed to be filed right away, not to mention all the loose ends with the SPK and the end of the case. And Mogi? He always got out of stuff like that just because he didn't talk enough, and Aizawa thought the Yagami's would take that as being unsympathetic.

So when he and Ide had told them, both women had broken before they even said the words, "Light," and "dead." They had already known, in a way. Not that it was any deduction of a genius, since the only time the cops ever showed up was to tell you someone else had died.

Matsuda knew Sachiko hated him, but he knew he deserved it. He tried to be polite and understanding anyway, even though the woman always found an excuse to shoo him out of her house within all of fifteen minutes.

It had become a ritual now. Every Saturday he would stop by, sometimes with some flowers or a pie, and they'd all sit at the kitchen table, mostly quiet. Sometimes there would be a small fond memory of Light or the Chief shared, and they'd all smile little pained smiles while Matsuda clenched his teeth and tried to keep from running to the bathroom to throw up.

Rituals, no matter how mundane or boring or outright bad, always had to be done. It had pretty much become a habit for him now, to stop by the store or florist and pick up something to bring to the Yagami's on Saturdays. He wasn't sure, but he thought that maybe, even Sachiko hated it when he came, it helped her. Because even in the midst of all the chaos, something as simple and consistent as his Saturday visits was one of the only things keeping her from losing her mind.


	7. Warmth

_Warmth_

Even though it had been several years now since Soichero Yagami's death, Matsuda still hadn't forgotten the Chief. Granted, he hadn't really been a "chief," merely the deputy director of the NPA.

He wasn't even sure anymore how he'd gotten in the habit of calling the kindly but no-nonsense man by the incorrect nickname. It had just sort of happened, just like the way they'd met, how he'd transferred Matsuda to his department when he saw him having a hard time of it, most of his assignments consisting of filing stacks of papers in endless amounts of paperwork, or running those same stacks up and down the huge building.

Matsuda still remembered the way the men (and even the women) would eye him with disdain or just plain indifference whenever he passed by. Maybe it was just paranoia, but he didn't think so. The feeling of the stares he felt whenever he entered and exited a room was too real.

But the Chief hadn't looked at him like that. Sure, when they first met, he'd eyed Matsuda strangely when he almost dropped a handful of thick folders of papers onto the man's foot and nearly smacked him in the face with the door once he finally succeeded in opening it. But then he must have seen the complete mortification on Matsuda's face, because he'd smiled a little, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and picked up the little styrofoam cup of coffee that had toppled off it's precarious perch atop the folders. He'd even fetched a handful of paper towels for Matsuda to clean up the mess, offering to transfer him directly under his authority, in his department. Even if he hadn't felt indebted to the Chief for his screw-up, even if they hadn't ever talked and Matsuda never once felt like he was wanted by someone, he still would have jumped at the chance. Working with the deputy director of the NPA? No way would he pass that up, or, he'd promised himself, mess it up.

But the Chief was gone now, another result of his own son's manipulative actions as Kira. There really weren't any words for how glad Matsuda was that the Chief never had to find out what Light really was. And even though he went to visit his grave every month on the eleventh, he still hadn't said anything about Light or Kira.

Matsuda stood there now, in his best suit, his trench coat pulled tightly around him to ward off the chill, staring at the gravestone. He cleared his throat.

"I…uh…even though I've done this before, it still feels kind of weird to talk to you, Chief. We all miss you, you know, on the Force. Sachiko and Sayu too. And me."

He paused and fiddled with the sprig of cherry blossom he'd snapped off a tree he'd passed by on his way here.

"Um…I brought you something." Leaning forward, he stuck the sprig into the dirt to the right of the gravestone. "They're supposed to symbolize clouds, life, and mortality all at the same time. It sort of confuses me, but you were always…so smart. I'm sure you could make sense of it," he said quietly, stepping back.

It was sunny out, the clouds casting scattered shadows across the cemetery. Matsuda stared up at the sky with a hand shading his eyes. "I wish you were still here," he sighed. "It's probably crazy selfish, considering…everything that happened… but I wish you could still look at me and smile like everything was okay, and nothing would matter to me but your approval. I…I wish Light hadn't…" He looked away and stared at his shoes until his eyes blurred, his fists clenched tight against his sides.

When he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes, but he wasn't going to let himself cry. Instead, he punched his chin up determinedly and saluted. "Chief, you've done more for me than you could ever know. I know I didn't always listen, but you gave me something to aspire to, someone I could hope to be, someday when maybe I stopped acting like such an idiot all the time. Without you, I never would have been involved in the Kira case, and I'd still be the same goofy, naïve fool I used to be. But I'm a different person now, and it's thanks to you."

Matsuda realized he probably looked pretty dumb standing at attention and talking to a gravestone. He lowered his hand and rested it momentarily on the cold stone, and turned and walked away. Reaching down to unbutton his coat, he wondered why it suddenly felt so much warmer. Maybe it was because the breeze had stopped, or because he wasn't standing in the shade anymore. Maybe it was because, if he stopped and looked up with his eyes shut to the sun, he could almost pretend the Chief was alive and Light was too, that it had all been some kind of messed up dream.

Or maybe it was because he realized everything he'd just said to the Chief was true, and he felt like he was starting over.

_**A/N: Whoops, this one got a little long.. oh well.**_  
_**Anyway, sorry to you Just a Martyr readers out there. *Cue list of excuses* I've been busy with...summer stuff. Down-time with friends, band, and of course, Independence Day goodness. I have about half the J.A.M chapter written, and intense planning to do for the next half. Big writers block. *sigh!***_  
_**So... have some Through Weary Eyes updates! Nothing like short fluffy/angsty/happy short stories, right...? Hope you enjoy! ** _


	8. Giggle

_Giggle_

_How many more lives can this Kira case take?_

Mogi sat at the table in his apartment, the bowl of instant soup he'd made himself slowly going cold. The spoon in his hand was starting to cut off circulation because he was gripping it so tightly. He'd just returned from Misa Amane's funeral, and despite the fact that his stomach had been making such noise he'd feared people would notice, now he couldn't be any less hungry.

It had been a closed-casket funeral. Based on what Aizawa had told him, Mogi hadn't been surprised. He'd said that she'd been found at the base of the water tower she'd thrown herself off of, her neck twisted and broken, her face smashed and bloody all over the asphalt. There was no way any mortician, no matter how skilled, could make her corpse presentable enough for…who, exactly? It's not like the young woman had had any family left. Sure, people had come, most of them merely her co-workers or employers from her days as an actress an model. But Mogi had seen their indifference, cleverly hidden, but there still the same. He hadn't been fooled. They were there for posterity, nothing more. They didn't care about her, didn't give a damn that she was dead.

Valentine's Day always bummed him out, but this one was worse. It wasn't bad enough that she had killed herself, but she'd waited until today to do it. It wasn't like he didn't know why, either. Light was dead, so now, she was dead too. She'd said it before, that she couldn't live in a world without Light.

Mogi sighed, stood up, and poured the bowl of soup down the sink. He doubted that Ide or Aizawa cared much about Misa's death, except that it made for extra paperwork. Maybe Matsuda had been affected, but he couldn't really be sure.

All he knew was that, Second Kira or not, she'd been nothing more than a girl dragged into this mess when she found a death note too. Without it, she could have continued her career in acting and modeling, maybe settled down with a man who really cared about her.

Sure, she could be annoying, even infuriating sometimes. But Mogi knew better. He remembered the better things about her, the way she'd giggle, loud and high pitched, like she was still a wily teenager even though she was really around twenty years old. He remembered her completely endless enthusiasm and fire. He remembered all the good about her, which for him, seemed to dull out the bad. And he realized something.

Valentine's Day _sucked_.


	9. Strange

_Strange_

Looking back on the case throughout its six-year-run, Aizawa thought about how strange it all was.

During the day, he was usually way too busy with his work at the NPA, and interacting with his family during the evening. But at night, with Eriko curled up beside him, sound asleep, he'd lie awake thinking, arms folded behind his head, staring at the darkness-cloaked cracks in the ceiling.

He'd think about Light mostly, and sometimes that damn Shinigami that had started it all, and he'd wonder why in hell Ryuk had had to go and drop the death note. He'd wonder where Light had found it, what he'd thought about and felt when he realized just what the thing was, what it was capable of. He wondered if Light had even cared.

Then he'd toss and turn so much that Eriko would groan and sigh in her sleep and roll over, back towards him, and he'd feel guilty for half-waking her up.

When his shoulder started aching incessantly, he chalked it up to stress. But then when Eriko pointed out that he hadn't been sleeping well or just going to bed late, he knew it had to do with the thoughts that plagued him into the latest hours of night. It was ironic, he knew, that he was losing sleep over something he would yell at Matsuda for doing: thinking too much about something that was over and done with.

Aizawa stared up into the darkness of the room, as was habit now, and listened to the noise of the big city just outside his window.

Strange, he thought with a dry smirk. People and the way they think are so…strange. I tell Matsuda not to do what I'm doing right now, and here I am, getting a crick in my shoulder over it.

The night wore on, and eventually he slept. Eventually, his shoulder pain stopped, and eventually he was able to sleep earlier without having to think so much. He never thought not thinking would feel so good.


End file.
